


The Flowers in the Ice

by Ophidia_Queen_of_Nothing



Series: The Frost [1]
Category: Frostpunk (Video Game), The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: ALL the tags, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cannon?, Child Murder, Cold Apocalypse, Frostpunk AU, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Says "Hmm", Implied Child Murder, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Mentioned Renfri | Shrike (The Witcher), More tags when I think of them, Multi, My Summary is garbage jeebus, Please let me know if I missed something that upsets someone, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Apocalypse, Pre-Apocalypse, Renfri Deserved Better, Renfri Dies, STREGOBOR IS HIS OWN WARNING, Slow Burn, Starts Light Gets Dark, Swearing, Timeline What Timeline, Trigger Warning Mpreg, mentions of vivisection, or as we call him Stregobitch, who's that?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:27:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25698820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophidia_Queen_of_Nothing/pseuds/Ophidia_Queen_of_Nothing
Summary: The world has changed. The continent has begun to fall to an inexplicable never-ending winter. Pockets of people survive the unforgiving weather, but as the world grows ever colder those pockets become ever fewer. In the desolation following the Frost, Witchers are needed in a way they haven't been in over 100 years. Monsters have evolved to be deadlier and survive the cold, The Brotherhood is in disarray, food is scarce, and Chaos has begun to change living beings in ways not witnessed before.During this crisis, a few mages working with the greatest minds Oxenfurt had to offer created the generators.  Massive machines capable of heating large areas to livable temperatures if they were magically maintained and given enough alchemical fire and coal to burn. Now came the herculean task to get whatever people could be saved through the treacherous icy wastelands to the generators.And still Nilfgaard marshals it's forces to war.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach/Vilgefortz of Roggeveen, Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach/Ermion | Mousesack, Coën/Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Filavandrel aén Fidhál & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Istredd/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Original Male Character/Original Male Character, Triss Merigold/Original Female Character(s), Vesemir/Original Female Character
Series: The Frost [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1863718
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	1. The Witcher

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for giving my work a chance! I haven't shared a fanfic in over 7 years, so please forgive my shoddy summary and haphazard tagging. Please let me know if I need to tag something that I missed. Beta read by the marvelous Theo and majestic Lexi. I hope to produce more of this quickly, but with everything going on in the world, I can't promise consistent updates.

_Come and rest in our haven and let me tell you of the end. The world is frozen and we are punished because we were blind, greedy, hateful creatures. Life before was rife with strife and deceit. Ours was a world dominated by the few by exploiting the many, and those few believed that they could exploit life itself with no consequence. Mages sought control in the shadows, elven folk fading from the natural order, witchers ignored all that had naught to do with coin and killing monsters, kingdoms of men sought power over all things, arrogant people throughout the Continent presumed that Destiny, Chaos, and Power lay at their beck and call. We all ignored the ancient warnings about the price to be paid for pride, hate, willful ignorance, and selfishness. Destiny and the Gods reminded us most harshly. Life now is a lesson hard-learned by those who remain. Humility, generosity, unity, and mindfulness. When one man tried to control the entire world, the world fought back and stripped control from us all._

_Jaskier of Snowdrop-Narrative of the End in the year of 5 PF_

Geralt bowed his head against the cold, scenting the air lightly; he was barely able to see his brothers through the snow and wind as they all trudged alongside their horses. They would have to make camp soon, despite being close to their destination, Oxenfurt. This new world held far too many dangers to travel on impaired. His keen sense of smell told him that a couple of his brothers were starting to falter; the musty, salty-sour smell of exhaustion beginning to waft from the youngest and smallest witcher, Konstantyn. 

The youngest witcher amongst them was only 27, and looked all of 16. He somehow had retained a baby face and slender stature despite the mutations of the Bear School. His training had been obviously incomplete, and they were all doing their best to teach him how to survive. Their runt wore plate and mail, but moved like he was in naught but leathers. Disciplinary smacks had to be given carefully because punching plate hurt like a bitch. 

Vesemir thought Konstantyn was a product of mixed formulas, and likely had unstable mutations. The runt would die from them at some point if a monster didn’t kill him first. The Old Wolf had simply sighed in quiet sorrow and absorbed the runt into their pack, teaching what he could to the whelp. Geralt enjoyed the dry humor Konstantyn espoused and the youngest Witcher’s skills were equal to many of the older brothers. He looked innocent, but was a crafty little fuck. Konstantyn often used his harmless, boyish face to get everything from information to extra rations. His fellows had been wary of him at first, unstable and experimental mutations could lead to disastrous outcomes. But once Geralt accepted Konstantyn, the rest followed suit. 

This new shit-hole world after the Frost was unrecognizable from the Continent they had all known for decades before. Everyone was dead or dying, be they human or non-human. The cold didn’t discriminate and it killed with ease old and young alike. Hunger had never been so great an equalizer before; food more precious than gold or jewels now that growing it was next to impossible. And to top off the shit cake with shit frosting, monsters had become a brand-new kind of fucked up. The mortal races of the Continent were not made for this kind of world and suffered greatly in it. But for witchers, there were almost more positives than negatives. 

They were not as hated simply because they were a necessity. There was always work whenever they found any remnants of a city or town; though they weren’t paid in coin much anymore. Food was common enough, along with pelts or cloth. They were always given shelter these days with little to no hassle because few living beings had the energy to hate vociferously enough to leave even witchers to freeze outside in the unnatural cold. And... they no longer traveled alone. It was - not nice - but maybe comforting to be close to others like himself with no threat of competition for contacts or the limited patience of human settlements. They could not survive without each other now. Lone witchers died quickly in this icy hellscape and too few remained for that to be acceptable. Now, they traveled in packs. A bestial descriptor, but one that had stuck thanks to fucking Lambert. With encouragement from Coen and Aiden, of course. Although his brothers could get desperately irritating, being close with others had been good for Geralt. He hadn’t realized how lonely he’d been until he’d been with his pack for a while. And with the insanity that was the Frost, he had more brothers than before.

After the first year that Winter did not turn to Spring, the oldest living witchers gathered together in secret, reconvening the Witcher Council and deciding to summon every school and witcher on the continent. They removed witchers from the world until answers could be found. They sent out their best pupils on the path to find information, and waited in readiness for whatever news would be brought. To the consternation of many restless monster hunters, after three years of unending winter and worsening cold, no real answers were forthcoming. There was only news of death, strange monsters, savage wars fought for dwindling resources, and silence from the Brotherhood. The Council gave them options, told them to think about what future they wanted for themselves and their kind. 

They could continue as they always had, and slowly die off with the rest of the world. They could pull back to their separate fortresses and wait for either death or resolution. Or, they could ban together and fight side by side. The vote unanimously went to combining their strengths. There was debate about where to settle permanently, and there were fights aplenty about training and contracts, but they reached a consensus in the end. The Council would act as a governing body and the witchers would take turns leading groups until the best leaders had been picked out from amongst them for future patrols. Then Kaer Morhen became home to all schools and all witchers were welcome in its walls.

The patrols were a pain in the ass at first, but were worked out smoothly before another year had passed. They mixed schools often enough that mixed unit tactics and mixed fighting styles became second nature to them. The groups that worked well together stayed together, and those that didn’t were shuffled around until they found combinations that succeeded. Geralt led a patrol consisting of Eskel, Lambert, Aiden, and Coen. They had all known one another before the Frost, and had even taken contracts together. They were sometimes joined by two others, Konstantyn and Ravus, both of whom Geralt was fairly fond of. Geralt liked his pack of five or seven, and liked that he always had another body to lean against when it got unbearable in camp. The white-haired witcher had also become fond of company, and secretly dreaded things going back to what they had been before. Although he’d never admit it out loud or show it, every time he and the others were sent out, he worried that it would be the last time he had his pack beside him.

The Brotherhood had reached out to the Witcher Council with a “monumental” task. The kind of task that required every witcher that could be found to make his way to Oxenfurt. Geralt didn’t like it, but whatever had been shown and told to the Witcher Council had them summoning everyone and sending out a pack immediately. It was enough to have the Old Wolf leading them out into the frozen world.

Geralt had never had a great handle on his emotions, and this contract from the Brotherhood had him twisted up inside. On the one hand, answers were good. Despite being shits that couldn’t be trusted, the mages would have something resembling answers. On the other hand, going back to a life of solitary roaming while hunting monsters with little food, warmth or kindness was a horrible prospect 

He knew he shouldn’t dwell, and it was certainly more likely that they would all die before the world returned to normal, yet his thoughts kept returning to that path. It was distracting him when he needed to pay attention. Outside of Kaer Morhen was a world that demanded vigilance and decisiveness, and that was not within Geralt’s ability at this time. He was glad Vesemir was in charge of this pack. Not only because Geralt felt out of sorts, but also because it was a larger group than he’s worked with before. All he had to do was follow the old man’s lead and keep his brothers safe. 

There had been no details from Vesemir, yet. All any of them knew was that they were headed to Oxenfurt, the City of Scholars. It was one of the few standing cities left in the Northern Kingdoms, not because scholars and traders were especially hardy, but because they had found solutions and ways to survive the extreme weather conditions. Science and engineering had saved them, giving them an edge over places where such practices were eschewed in favor of tradition and superstition. The city had stood so well against the cold that it was rumored to actually be crowded there. Oxenfurt supposedly sheltered hundreds of people. It would make it the largest single population on the continent outside of the capital city of Nilfgaard. None of them were thrilled at the prospect of suddenly being immersed in a city full of hungry, frightened humans. 

He was brought out of his musings by the sudden halt of Vesemir's footsteps. The oldest wolf raised his hand and swept it in a sharp circle as a sign for them all to get into a defensive formation. Geralt looked to where the old man was staring ahead; bright lights moved towards them at a swift pace with large shapes accompanying them. The pack gathered closer, quickly moving horses to the middle as every witcher reached for his blades. They did not draw weapons yet, not wanting to make aggressive moves in case the lights were accompanied by cold wraiths, who would be less likely to attack if they were not threatened. As the lights drew nearer, Geralt could hear hands tighten on hilts. Konstantyn was closest to him, and he clearly heard the youngest witcher’s oddly fast heart rate pick up further in anticipation.

Through the snow, the bright lights became clearer and revealed six mounted figures approaching at a steady canter. When they were within a short distance from the pack, they slowed their pace and approached at a slow walk. Up close, Geralt could make out that all six were armed and had a strange lantern-like object strapped to their chests or waists. They were all well dressed for the biting cold; even their eyes were covered by goggles and faces by woolen masks. The horses they rode all seemed in fine condition, healthy hearts and lungs protected from the cold by heavy blankets and wraps on their legs. 

Five carried both swords and crossbows, wise choices in high wind and low visibility. The last carried only a sword, but the scent of flowers and ozone was strong enough to cut through the wind, telling Geralt that the rider was a magic user, and the first target if things were about to go sour. The witcher pack stood in silent readiness as the figures came close, stopping just shy of swords reach for a normal human.

“Are you the witchers sent by the Brotherhood?” The question was asked in a pleasant, yet firm voice. Geralt opened his mouth slightly to better scent the group and picked up the scent of oak, loam, and something ancient, undefinable. He blinked in surprise as he registered that all of the other riders were elves. 

“We are,” answered Vesemir, gruffly. The Old Wolf was their de facto leader, him interacting with the remaining populace of the world saved the rest from having to do it. Which suited most of them just fine. 

The flowers and ozone were joined by the sweet smell of relief, as the magic user dismounted and walked over to Vesemir. They pulled down a heavy wool mask to reveal a bright smile and sweetly rounded cheeks with flawless skin. This was a sorceress, likely from Aretuza and not a hedge mage given how confident she seemed; as if she were completely unaffected by the presence of a fairly large group of Witchers. Geralt found himself reluctantly impressed.

“My name is Triss Marigold, Master Witcher. My companions and I will show you the rest of the way to Oxenfurt. It is less than an hour out on horseback and a couple more hours out on foot if your horses are tired. However you choose to go forward, we must make haste. The normal road has become unsafe, due to a pack of monsters and a coming storm. There is little time to lose,” she said.

Vesemir grunted in acknowledgement and turned to the rest of them in silent query. They all shared a brief glance at their horses, and looked back at Vesemir, most of them shaking their heads. There was no way they could ride the tired animals now, not when they had been traveling for so long with little rest. 

Vesemir gave a single brief nod in acknowledgement and turned back to Triss. “For the sake of our horses we must walk.” 

She gestured, and the other riders began to dismount, besides two who turned their horses and rode swiftly back the way they came, likely reporting back to whatever amounted to a perimeter defense. Triss began to walk in the same direction, and the other scouts fanned out around her. Close enough to hear, far enough to scatter easily if needed. Geralt exchanged a glance with Eskel. These people were experienced and well trained. A distinct oddity in this part of the world that once was home to scholars and city folk. 

“We have food, shelter, and warm beds for you and your horses. There’s still ale and vodka to warm your bones as well.” That was a solid motivation for any man or witcher to keep moving. Even though some of the pack still smelled weary, they all moved towards the promise of warmth and food, following Triss and the scouts. “You will have to share rooms, as our refugee situation has left quarters a bit cramped until our building team can finish weather proofing more places.” 

“How the fuck do you weather proof against frozen hell?” grumbled Lambert. 

Geralt snorted lowly, as did some of the others. Vesemir growled, low and sharp, a reprimand for joking on the job and a reminder to not fall into complacency. Allies could be enemies in a split second and monsters could lie in wait in the piles of snow. No matter what promised comforts awaited at the end of the road, they needed to remain vigilant.

“We were not told of a refugee situation.” Vesemir sounded disgruntled, and likely was. Situations with large unknown factors like refugee camps could make their lives very difficult, very quickly. Surprisingly, it was one of the scouts who spoke up to explain.

“King Filavandrel of the Silver Towers and Queen Calanthe of Cintra have both come here with as many of their people as they could save.” None of them managed to conceal their shock completely, because for both rulers to be residing at Oxenfurt...the world truly had to be coming to an end. 

The Lioness was deeply prejudiced against the elves and Filavandrel was as proud as they came. Their mutual hatred ran so deep that Geralt couldn’t imagine a situation where they could work together before the Frost. To share such close quarters, with limited resources and the pressure of a dying world? This was surely just another sign of impending apocalypse.

“We are so fucked,” was Konstantyn’s dry assessment. The scout laughed at the young witcher. 

“You are not the first to think so, vatt’ghern.” They pulled the scarf covering their face down, revealing fine elven features and Scoia’tael war tattoos. “And to answer your question;” they continued, directing their words to Lambert, “I have no idea. It involves alchemy, engineering and some kind of magic. One of the professors, Jaskier, helped to put the process together after people began to struggle insulating buildings well enough to grow food in.” The elf shrugged. “It’s an unusual combination of disciplines, but Jaskier is a bit unusual himself. Useful in a pinch though.” 

“A bit unusual is an understatement. That man is a lunatic.” Triss giggled lightly as she spoke. “He is, however, the driving force behind many of the inventions and techniques that keep Oxenfurt functional and keep the people safe. It’s not uncommon to have him dragging scholars around in groups to solve unsolvable problems. Even if he doesn’t personally have the knowledge on how engineering, chemistry, or magic can actually be a solution, he has a knack for putting the right people together and ensuring miracles happen.” Triss shook her head fondly.

“He doesn’t sound unusual so far.” offered Konstantyn. The elf that had first spoken laughed again.

“What Lady Merigold left out is that he’s hyperactive and prone to babbling at any given moment. He sings constantly, and plucks his lute almost without ceasing. How a man can work through complex mathematics while playing Skelligan tavern jigs is something I will never understand. He teaches children, too! I have never met someone so well suited to having a million things to do. He’s almost pure manic energy.” The scout paused and sighed, a more somber note entering his voice. “He’s also the reason Calanthe and Filavandrel haven’t turned the city into a battleground.” Triss nodded her head at the scout in acknowledgement. 

“I do not know how he managed it, but Jaskier has somehow kept the bloodshed at bay and kept the people full of cheer.” said Triss “How any one man can be an engineer, city planner, professor, and diplomat continues to elude me. Describing him as manic almost seems like an understatement.” 

Geralt kept his outward expression stony, but he was groaning mentally. This Jaskier (what kind of fucking name) person had come up with weather proofing that actually worked and kept to angry royals from killing each other. He was likely to be one of the people they would have to interact with on a regular basis and unfortunately sounded like he would be very noisy. Geralt knew he ought to wait and judge the man for himself, but he’d always struggled with auditory overstimulation after his mutations. He’d really fucking despised bards before all this, almost as much as he’d despised nobility. 

Geralt was not keen on dealing with humans on good days and he could not predict any good days for some time to come. Why couldn’t they have just ignored the summons to the blasted city? Calanthe of Cintra was not going to make life easy for any of them, and personally hated Geralt for calling the Law of Surprise on her daughter. She exiled him from Cintra, imprisoned Lambert for several months, chased away the Dyn Marv Caravan, and spent much of her time outside her palace hunting and killing elves. If there was a royal Geralt both respected and hated, it was the Fucking Lioness of Cintra.

“He’s done well by our people, and we would likely have been fine to stay here if it didn’t look like everything was only going to get worse,” the sorceress continued, unaware of Geralt’s inner bitching. That caught Geralt’s attention, drawing his thoughts away from cruel queens, proud kings, and child surprises. How much worse could things get? Geralt wasn’t sure he wanted to know, and given the slight anxiety smells, neither did his brothers. He exchanged wary looks with Eskel and Coen; they did not seem any happier than he did at the news.

“You’ll need to talk to the dean and a couple other professors. As well as my colleagues.” Triss sighed heavily. “They have all the details, and I think you should know what you are in for.” 

Gods be damned this day was shaping up to bite his balls. Praise be to Melitele there was some fucking booze waiting for them and a stable where he could spend some time with Roach. Geralt had a keen sense they were going to need every drop they could get their hands on. News about the apocalypse demanded nothing less than a full drunken stupor. Fuck.


	2. The Bard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Lexi for beta reading! Check out Lexi's work here and on Tumblr under the username Thanksroach!

_There is no single person to be blamed for the Frost. Granted, Stregobor comes close to being the sole reason the world as we once knew it was frozen over, but the progress he made in his plans was because of a social systematic failure. Our society had a distinct lack of ability to check those in power. This was borne from our greed and envy. People saw power and envied it, sought it, coveted the comfort it would bring. And more often than not, when they got that power, they forgot what it meant to be powerless and did not use their power to benefit anyone other than themselves or perhaps their kin.There are notable exceptions to this rule (Appendix A) but for the most part those with power will stop at nothing to continue to accumulate it._

_Stregobor was a decently powerful mage, with a powerful position, and a vast wealth to his name. It was not enough for him. He craved power the way a starving man craves bread, and he saw the Curse of the Black Sun as a way to an endless feast. That particular bit of nonsense is a well established and many times interpreted bit of prophecy from the mad mage Eltibald. Eltibald claimed humankind would meet their end at the hands of “sixty women wearing gold crowns, who would fill the river valleys with blood” paving the way for Lilit to return. Which was nothing like what brought about the end of the “human age”._

_The truth of the matter is that a Black Sun is simply a solar eclipse and of the many children born that day, it was girls who most often bore unusual mutations. We don’t know why, and we don’t need to. Some mutations were simply birth defects (Appendix B), and superstition ruled the day. And some mutations were simply a strange madness (Appendix C), and there were very few true mutations in those baby girls. The number of truly mutated girls remains contested, but many are documented by their captors and killers (Appendix D)._

_The question of why so many were changed by the eclipse was a notable puzzle for many magical scholars. Mages who wanted answers would, did and will continue to resort to horrific measures to get the answers to their questions. There is no certain way to tell how many baby girls, young female children, and women died for mages to get these answers. There are more mages than the Brotherhood will admit who took part in murdering and desecrating infants, children, and adults to answer a question that didn’t even matter in the end._

_According to my sources from the Brotherhood and what journals I managed to obtain (Appendix E), Stregobor had long been fascinated by mutations. He was already known amongst mages for doing experiments that pushed “ethical” boundaries in order to find what limits a living mutated creature could endure. The plethora of mutated girls made monstrous and villainous by the words of a long dead madman presented him with a unique chance to expand his experiments, this time with no opposition. It bears repeating that he was not alone in his pursuit of this knowledge, and he was not the only one who performed terrible cruelties in his search. Sabrina Glevissig is a noted hunter of Black Sun Daughters, and has a body count of 12 girls (Appendix F), killed via vivisection in order to learn their secrets._

_Stregobor is another hunter of Black Sun Daughters, and his body count ranges from 80 to 150 (Appendices G and H). We have no way of knowing for certain and I, dear reader, am fairly certain I do not want to._

_It is a truly staggering amount of innocent blood to shed for no reason other than the words of a man driven mad by his readings and interpretation of ancient tombstones and necropolises. Those poor girls. They were either innocent or twisted by their circumstance. No matter how their lives started, every girl mentioned in Stregobors journals had an end that was horrific. Some of my colleagues believe that the frost is punishment for those poor girls. As poetic and just as that would be, I must disagree._

_I say the frost is punishment for greed and meddling with forces beyond our understanding, because innocents were murdered for centuries with no consequence. Destiny and deities care not for the innocent._

_It isn’t that Stregobor murdered innocent girls, it’s that he used forbidden techniques to try and replicate the conditions that cause the mutations. He very nearly succeeded. It is only the actions of a select few that kept him from his goals. Stregobor wanted a mutated army, wanted to bring the continent to heel beneath a monstrous boot of his own making. He had notions of divine aspiration. He should have been content with the near unlimited power he already had, but like so many before him, he could never be content and would always pursue more._

_Now, it should be noted that Stregobor was not as magically powerful as he would have had people believe; a great deal of his power lay in illusion. He was no combat mage, and when the time came to fight or flee he would always, always choose to flee. Mayhap that is why his desire for a personal army was so great that he violated the law of gods and men to get it._

_Despite his repulsive and cowardly nature, there are many scholars like myself wishing we could talk to Stregobor. There are many questions one might want to ask him; what made him choose the path he did, why did he have to torture and torment little girls, what did he really hope to achieve with his army, what made him so sure that he was doing the right thing? My personal question is about how he could sleep at night. Unfortunately, it is rather impossible to ask a mutated monstrous corpse any questions at all._

_I think that we will never really know, and I am grateful for it. Personally, I should shudder to think of understanding his twisted path. I think that delving too far into the mind and reasoning of Stregobor will only pave the way for more villains like him. We should eschew what Stregobor did, thought and believed. Never forgetting and never forgiving. The cost of his work is too high to allow anyone to follow in his footsteps. Outside of his twisted experiments, he is responsible for the deaths of millions. He is responsible for Blaviken, he is responsible for the cataclysm of Toussaint, and he is largely responsible for the loss of civilization as we knew it._

_In this chapter, I will go into more detail about the changes wrought over time by the consumption and abuse of chaos, by Stregobor and others, with notes and footnotes by the esteemed Lady Yennefer of Vengerberg. It is my hope that by understanding what brought us to our current situation, we can avoid repeating it._

_Jaskier of Snowdrop- Excerpt from Prelude to Narrative of the End, Chapter One in the year of 5 PF_

Once upon a time, Oxenfurt was a city noted for its lovely, if impractical, architectural style choices. Steep gables and steeper cross gables tiled in red clay or lacquered wood were an absurd maintenance expense in a place where the snows of winter did not fall heavily enough to damage perfectly sensible thatch roofs. Wide and stone lined streets were another unnecessary expense, especially when packed dirt or gravel was a serviceable enough alternative. Strong, thick stone walls were of course wasted on a non-military city and oh how absurd a use for a drawbridge! What ever would a university need a drawbridge for? And let it never be forgotten that the feat of engineering that was the sewer system was much maligned. Most of the continent viewed Oxenfurt as an expensive, if useless, adornment for Redania. And, for the longest time that view was mostly correct; Oxenfurt was primarily a city of aesthetics. 

It was a bitter sort of funny that those same vain, expensive choices were what saved them in the dark days of the Frost. For all that Jaskier loved Oxenfurt, it would not have been the city he would have picked as the one to survive in an apocalypse. Oxenfurt was mostly intact, it’s people were mostly healthy, and the rest of the world was mostly dead. On a good day, these facts brought a dark sense of hilarity to Jaskier and many of the other faculty members. On a bad day, the reminder that they had survived when untold thousands had not was enough to make even the most cheerful person want to weep. 

Jaskier himself had come to Oxenfurt to be a bard and escape Lettenhove. While the world had begun to cool already, it hadn’t gotten truly terrible until after Jaskier had finished his mastery. He would admit that he hadn’t expected to be necessary. Famous, remembered, important to the history of the world. But not important enough to be considered an important resource. And certainly not responsible for diplomacy, organizing communities, working out rationing, or teaching! He had not wanted the responsibility of being a viscount, had not wanted to be responsible for the lives and wellbeing of hundreds of people. He had run as fast and soon as he could to get away from responsibility. And yet, here he was. One of the people leading Oxenfurt into the long, cold night praying that their chances would be improved by whatever innovation they could dream up. 

It was another bitter draught to think that if he had stayed home, he would have had less people to care for. He also would have been dead and his beloved little sisters alongside him. According to one of his professors, there was a universe out there where Jaskier died with his sisters. Dear old Albert said that there were an infinite number of universes, created with every choice to be made. He’d even said there was a universe where Jaskier was just a humble bard and had no responsibility. A universe where Oxenfurt was just the same cheerful university city, people were not dying by the thousands, where spring came with the promised warmth and renewed life. A universe with no Frost.

That universe’s Jaskier could go fuck himself. This Jaskier had the weight of more than a thousand souls depending on him and his colleagues to keep them alive. It was not a challenge Jaskier would have ever sought; he would have run from Oxenfurt if he’d known. Yet after stumbling on the solution for insulation and saving his people from a slow death by starvation and cold, he’d become accustomed to the weight. 

The Jaskier of this universe relished it. He couldn’t imagine a different life. It was fulfilling and thrilling to be able to help his people. And he loved them. From the dryads to the elves to his fellow humans, he loved them all. Seeing Oxenfurt thrive had become one of Jaskier’s greatest joys. That wasn’t to say that some days weren’t trying to the extreme. Like today.

Today was one of the days where he “got a break” from the stress of community planning and keeping Filavandrel and Calanthe from killing each other. Instead he got the stress of teaching his assigned group of 40 hellspawn the basics of math, science, medicine, literature, music astronomy and whatever else he could pull out of his ass. Jaskier was well aware that his lesson plans were chaotic at best, but he challenged anyone to do better with a group of children of every race on the continent all ranged from 4 to 13 years of age. 

Today's lesson was a bit of a mess, in both the literal and figurative sense. He might have, perhaps waited until the end of the day, and the sent them home hyperactive. Jaskier mused on the possibility of calling the day early and dealing with the literal mess himself as he tried to settle his darling shits down so he could teach them how to rhyme in meter.

In hindsight, he maybe shouldn’t have started the lesson with chemistry and making bright stretchy slime for them to play with. The ingredients were everywhere on the tables. And clothes. And walls. Was that slime on the ceiling? Oh well. Joy was in short supply, and the part of Jaskier that loved being a bard just wanted for people to be happy. The happy delighted shrieks of the children as they played was a delightful, if ear piercing sound. Besides, with Ciri, Dara and all three of his sisters in his classroom, expecting anything other than a kind of contained disaster was patently unrealistic. And speaking of disaster.

“ADELE ZUZANNA PANKRATZ DO NOT DUMP THAT SLIME ONTO YAKOV'S HAIR!” bellowed Jaskier. 

Bless bardic breath control for allowing Jaskier to be louder than his screaming horde of sweethearts. Every child in the room froze at his shout to stare at the spectacle of Jaskier’s littlest sister standing on a table with a small cauldron of bright fuschia slime in her hands, poised to pour it over the pale blonde Yakov. Jaskier crossed the room faster than he’d ever thought he could and used one hand to yank the offending slime from Adele and grab her around the waist with his other arm.

The children were all still frozen as Jaskier surveyed them sternly. Or as sternly as he could manage. He probably looked constipated. When he did not spot any more imminent disaster, he set the slightly squirming Adele down. The bard then calmly set the cauldron of slime on top of a nearby bookcase and clapped his hands.

“Clean up your tables my darlings! Set your slime pots on the cabinets against the far wall and return to your seats in the storytime circle. We have finished this lesson and it is time to learn something new.” Jaskier spoke at his usual level of volume, and his throat thanked him for it. “Don’t forget to help each other please! Remember, work together at every task and we’ll be strong enough to face any weather!” His little monsters chorused their agreement, and he felt a small sense of accomplishment. Who knew that all it took to reign them in was a single absurdly loud shout? 

The children all started to clean up and it was good to see them cheerfully working together with no extra direction from him. Even if they took nothing else from his lessons, they would always have the bonds of teamwork he tried to foster. From the beginning Jaskier had tried to break up any little cliques, and had never tolerated excluding one another based on race. Jaskier started to sing the clean up song as he helped the nearest little ones carry their cauldron of slime to the wall.

“Come, my little friends

As we all sing a happy little working song

Merry little voices clear and strong

Come and roll your sleeves up so you can help out

Wash away all the stains from the tile grout!

You can do a lot when you got 

Such a happy working tune to hum

With a little bit of la-da-dee-dee-dum

You’ll see the chores will soon be done

If you just sing along 

With a happy little working song!”

The children all laughed and sang with him when he repeated the song again as they cleaned. Once the classroom was as clean as it was going to get, Jaskier herded the children to their storytime circle. It wasn’t really a circle, but storytime semi-circle just didn’t ring as well to his poet's ear. It was a number of cushions and pillows arrayed in a half circle in front of one of the big blackboards. Here Jaskier would teach more serious subjects, because the little ones had a habit of dropping off into sleep if he spoke long enough on a boring enough subject. And he’d like the little gremlins to be comfortable while they slept through his lectures.

Jaskier had just lifted his chalk to the blackboard when he heard the first bell ring. It was a deep, resonating toll, from their largest bell. It meant that strangers were approaching. He raised the hand not holding chalk, asking with a gesture for his hooligans to be still and quiet. A smaller bell with higher pitch did 10 long tolls, with a trio of quick rings following. 10 armed strangers with horses. Well, Jaskier had wanted to cut the day short. 

The bard sighed theatrically and began the process of escorting the children out of his classroom and into the hall of medicine. It was one of the most secure locations in the university, and it had a number of secret exits for the children and their chaperons to flee through if things came to ill. This, of course, is not what he told his charges.

“My little darlings, the bells told me we have visitors! Isn’t that exciting?” Jaskier set down his chalk and turned to face the children, pasting his best and brightest smile on. “Grab your coats, scarves, gloves, and hats my little hellions! You all will go visit Miss Shani and I will go see what news the bells bring.” 

Jaskier made sure his voice was cheery as he bent down to help the littlest in the group gather his coat, scarves, and mittens. “How lucky, you lovely lot get to leave class early and I get to do more work.” Jaskier pouted a bit at the children and got a number of giggles back. He stood straight and put on his slightly serious face. 

“I am off to the tower,” said Jaskier, “so I can learn about them and maybe, if you are all very good, I can get them to come talk to us in the next class!” This set the children to speculation, each offering a more outlandish potential visitor than the last. Jaskier let them continue doing so as he guided them through the halls.

While most of the children were pleased enough with avoiding a lecture that distracting them was easy, some of the older ones grew wary as soon as they heard the big bell. Jaskier did his best to smile at them reassuringly, but knew that would be no comfort until the bells were rung again at days end. They had seen too much death and sorrow following the tolling bells to be soothed. Jaskier sighed and started to sing a well-known and silly clapping rhyme. If he could not make them feel better, he could distract them.

There was a tug at his sleeve and he looked down at his middle sister, Anna. She didn’t need to say a word for Jaskier to wrap his hand around hers. Of his three sisters, Anna had taken the fall of Lettenhove the hardest, and often sought to hold his hand in times of stress. 

“Is there more trouble, Julek?” she asked quietly. Jaskier knew she wanted to be reassured, so he lied through his teeth.

“Of course not, little sweet! We’re safe as houses here. You know that our scouts are probably riding out as we speak. They’ll meet the strangers and be back as swift as the wind.” Anna continued to look dubious, with a furrow between her dark brows. Jaskier continued, “Triss and Istredd are here to protect us all as well. And if that isn’t enough, we can always pull up the bridge.” Jaskier mimed cranking a winch with the hand not holding Anna’s as he spoke. Anna nodded her head and he smiled at his solemn sister. “But all the same my little sweet, mind Adele and listen to Aleksandra while I am running about.” Anna nodded again and let go of his hand to go walk with Adele. 

The brief walk to the hall of medicine was uneventful, the little monsters behaving under Jaskier’s watchful eye. As soon as they reached the hall, Shani threw open the doors and began to direct the children to the areas away from the treatment rooms.

“I want the littlest ones in the leftmost back room,” said Shani. “That means anyone under six! Please and thank you!” 

Jaskier often envied Shani her easy ability to make people do what she wanted them to do. He supposed it was the take-no-shit aura Shani exuded that kept every person she met in line. 

“Older children may stay with younger siblings, but the rest of you I want you to find a place in one of the unoccupied resting rooms.” 

Jaskier walked over to his friend and colleague, grinning with mischievous intent. Shani narrowed her eyes at him and narrowly dodged his first attempt to muss her hair, only to fall prey to the arm he wrapped around her waist. Jaskier dramatically dipped Shani and pretended to kiss her noisily, eliciting laughter and a chorus of ewwws from the children still around them. He took the moment to share a warning without the children being privy to it.

“Try to keep them all close together in case we need to run,” murmured Jaskier. “The bells indicated they were armed, and they might only be another scouting band.” Shani nodded, eyes serious, as he tipped her back to her feet. She mockingly swatted Jaskier about the chest and shoulders. 

“Ingrate! Scoundrel! Libertine! Don’t you teach these children bad habits, you terrible flirt!” scolded Shani. Jaskier laughed and bowed out of the doors, throwing a last wink at his students. Thank all the absent gods Shani could play along with a ruse to keep the children calm. Now that he’d secured the children under Shani’s watchful eye, he turned on his heel and ran on nimble feet to the watchtower. 

It was across the courtyard from the hall, and he had to run through icy winds and snow to get there. Jaskier regretted his everything the moment the bard stepped out of the main doors. The icy winds blowing through the open space of the courtyard stole through his clothes and into his flesh like sharp knives, and he cursed himself for forgetting his damn coat. He’d been so focused on making sure the children were distracted that he’d distracted himself. Jaskier steeled himself for a few seconds and took off, as he had no time to waste going back to his classroom to get his coat. Or his gloves. Or his scarf. Or his hat. He sprinted across the grounds, swearing colorfully the entire time until he reached the tower's ground floor door. 

The watchtower was once one of the astronomy towers, solid and large enough to bear the brunt of the frequent gale force winds that battered any tall structure in the city. It had been further strengthened as part of security measures following the influx of roving bands of bandits after Novigrad and Tretogor fell.The watch room at the top was something special, the once solid stone walls had been carefully altered into walls where double thick magically insulated glass made up the walls. There was enough stone remaining to support the roof, but the view offered from the watchtower was easily 360 degrees. The roof had also been drastically changed. Where once there were light hinged panels in order to view the stars without obstruction, there were solid timbers backed by a metal cage. The timbers and cage provided support for a complex cable and pulley system that allowed the watchers to ring the bells without having to run across a courtyard and up the bell tower. 

As soon as Jaskier reached the base of the watchtower, he wrenched one of the heavy doors open before darting inside. He’d been outside less than 5 minutes and already he shook and shivered with cold. Though the dash up the stairs would help get the chill out of his blood, he prayed there would be a spare coat that he could take for the journey back. 

As Jaskier began to ascend the stairs to the top of the tower, the quiet murmur of voices reached his ears, growing louder with every landing. Each voice was familiar, making Jaskier smile and pick up his pace. The bard reached the doors at the top and knocked on the heavy door. The voices abruptly cut off as the eye level plate slid aside. 

Luminous green eyes peered at him and quickly crinkled at the corners in a smile. The panel closed again and Jaskier heard the bar that crossed the door slide out of the bolt holes. The door started to open, spilling warmed air out and Jaskier eeled his way in as soon as the gap was wide enough. He sighed in bliss as the warmth of the room enveloped him along with the quiet chuckles of the scouts.

“Forgot to grab your coat again, eh Jaskier?” came Calan’s teasing question as he rebarred the door after closing it behind the bard. Jaskier pouted a bit and shivered in answer. Feynriel, who had been standing to the left of the door, clicked his tongue and threw his arms and open coat around him. Jaskier immediately flushed, both from the warmth and the proximity of a dreadfully handsome elf. He hoped that the pink in his cheeks could be excused as the flush of heat that came from warming up after being cold. Judging by the look of mischief in Calan’s green eyes, it would not be. 

“In my defense, I had to get my little crowd of imps together, and was so busy minding their coats I simply didn’t have the time to spare grabbing mine!” exclaimed Jaskier. He’s a bit forgetful. It happens. Like now, for example. He was supposed to be getting information from the scouts, not flirting. Jaskier sighed. He had better get their report and then wait for the return of their forward scouts. And pray for friendly travelers.

“What did you see and who is going out to meet the strangers?” Jaskier looked over at one of the other tower guards as he asked, wanting to make sure they knew he was listening to _them_ and not just their words. The guard, Alindeth, walked over to one of the spyglasses that had been set up. 

“It’s an armed party of 10 moving at a swift pace towards us. They aren’t mounted, but they do have horses with them. From what we could see before the snow began to fall harder, they looked bulky enough to suggest being well fed and strong. We suggested sending Triss, Vilgefortz, the triplets, Oberon and Quintus because everything suggests that if they are coming to fight, it would take our best to drive them off,” replied Alindeth. “We were overruled and the party was changed at the gates.” Jaskier made an irritated sound. 

“Let me guess. Professor Marx interceded and convinced other, more relevant people that we couldn’t risk ‘our strongest and most valuable fighters’ and removed Oberon, Quintus, and Vilgefortz.” Feynriel heaved a disgusted sigh against the back of Jaskier’s crown.

“Got it in one teadh.” replied Feynriel. Jaskier manfully resisted the urge to pitch himself on the floor and groan. He just knew this was going to turn into another headache-inducing diplomatic nightmare. Alindeth and Calan both nodded in agreement with Feynriel, with their faces set in a grimace of discontent. 

“ Who did Marx send and how angry am I going to be?” asked Jaskier, knowing he was not going to like the answer.

“Triss, the triplets, Faendal, and Hivath’ra.” Jaskier felt his temper rise and he buried his face in his palms to muffle his angry noises. Save for Triss, the party was entirely elven. That Marx had made noise about keeping back the ‘strongest’ and ‘most valuable’ but did not include Faendal amongst that number just highlighted how disgustingly racist the pompous ass was. He felt one of the two elves not currently sharing body heat with him pat his head.

“Cheer up teadh, now you have another reason to yell at him in public.” said Calan with a chuckle. Jaskier scrubbed his palms over his face a couple times before exhaling harshly. He raised his chin and stepped out of the warm circle of Feynriel's arms.

“I do not yell at Marx,” declared Jaskier. “That would be an uncouth way to treat a colleague and fellow bard. I simply have conversations that shame him. Loudly.” Three answering chuckles informed him that no one in the room bought his bull. 

Jaskier harumphed loudly and turned to the door. He had placed one hand on the bar when a heavy warm weight was dropped over his head, blocking his sight. Jaskier flailed a moment before pulling the fabric off of his head and turned to see Feynriel, sans coat, staring at him with heated eyes.

“Come back to me after you are done. You can return my coat and I will keep you warm when I see you to your quarters.” murmured Feynriel. Jaskier grinned back at him and bowed low as he slipped the body warm garment on.

“A kindly offer, dear one.” Jaskier winked. “I look forward to it.”


End file.
